


Whether in Purple or Rags

by akelios



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Crossdressing, M/M, Mpreg, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akelios/pseuds/akelios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“That is a very nice dress. I'm going to ruin it.”</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clint has to go to certain lengths to blend into a crowd now days. Not being stared at is the goal. Everything that comes after is a bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whether in Purple or Rags

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as another fic I'm writing, but knowledge of that fic is (I think) not necessary for the enjoyment of this one. However, if you want to know: Clint is pregnant with Loki's child after the events of the movie and living in Avengers Tower with the rest of the gang.
> 
> He and Bruce are dating in the way that only spies/assassins and geniuses with extraordinary anger management issues can.
> 
> Thanks to **forestgreen** for reading, helping me make the story better and just generally getting me into this mess in the first place. :)
> 
> Also, my titles are random.

“What's wrong with his tummy?”

Clint doesn't look at the little boy three feet to their left. He knows that the kid is pulling on his mothers hand and pointing at Clint, at the obvious rise of his stomach stretching out the fabric of his oversized t-shirt.

“Harvey! Don't be rude.” The mother hushes him, kneeling down to whisper something, all the while staring herself without looking like she's staring. Clint doesn't blush, secret agents don't blush unless they need to, but as he turns away his chest feels tight.

“Hey.” Clint slides up beside Bruce where he's eyeing one of the more disturbing photographs in the exhibit. Bruce grunts at him and leans closer to the glass, squinting without need behind his glasses. “Decaying bodies really that fascinating?”

“The description says he died from leprosy, but I don't think-”

“Pretty sure it's not an emergency diagnosis, doc. The picture was taken...” He checks the information beside the piece. “Over a year ago.” Clint rolls his neck and takes a quick look around. The mother is still looking at him, even as she herds her children through the hall. She keeps glancing back, a frown creasing her brow. Clint can't imagine what the hell she was thinking bringing kids to look at dead bodies anyway.

“Is something wrong?” Bruce's voice is quiet and steady, his presence reassuring even in relative stillness.

“I'm just kind of tired.” Clint shrugs and shifts on his feet. “I'm going to go sit down and rest for a few minutes.”

“No, no. We'll head back to the Tower. I'm done here anyway.”

-

Clint wakes to the sound of his door opening, the noise quiet and barely noticeable. It's the most noise that Tasha has ever made coming into a room in her life, and Clint knows her well enough to appreciate that she's making the effort.

He's glad that he'd finally given up on trying to read and settled down for a quick nap. There's hope, slim as it is, that Tasha will see the book Clint has closed and laid off to the side, his breathing the quiet, steady ebb and flow of sleep and slip right back out. It would only be delaying the inevitable, the conversation that Clint has known was coming for the past week, the looks of his teammates like the promise of storm clouds building on the horizon of the peace that he's carved out for himself.

He can't escape into the vents anymore, Minya's most recent growth spurt making him too heavy and awkward to even get into the air system. So he's been trapped on the ground, dodging more and more slowly as everyone closes in around him.

Tasha's footsteps are silent on the thick carpeting, but Clint can feel her getting closer, the skin on his neck and arms tightening and itching with the instinct to move. Clint resists, trying to keep himself relaxed. When she leans on the side of the mattress, he knows that he's failed, but he still doesn't move until her fingers grab none too gently at his ear and pull it up, the tip of one finger running along the crease there with just a little too much force to be ticklish.

"Hey!" Clint pulls away, slapping his hand back at Natasha. She hisses out a quick laugh, already gone before he even starts moving. "What the hell was that?"

"Just checking to see if you've started sprouting mushrooms."

"Ha. Don't quit your day job, okay?" Clint finally manages to push himself up into a sitting position, his back aching faintly as he stretches out.

"You're hiding."

"I do that. Usually you respect it."

“You haven't left the tower in two weeks.” She says nothing else, just waits. Clint could usually wait her out, after all silence and stillness were part of the life of a sniper. But his skin has been itching constantly for months, Bruce has explained again and again about the hormones but all Clint knows is that he's on edge and exhausted most of the time, and he feels down. He just wants to _breathe_.

“I can't go out. Like this.” Clint pokes at his stomach, as though Tasha could possibly miss the huge swell of it jutting out from his otherwise lean and muscled form. “There were looks, last time. Confused, weird looks. Bruce didn't notice, I don't think. He was too into the exhibit and he doesn't get to enjoy himself enough so I didn't say anything. But it's just...I can't pass it off as weight gain anymore. It's too uneven for that to be believable.”

“You've gained a little all over.” Even she doesn't sound like she believes it. They sit in silence, the soft light through the windows marking the passage of time as the shadows shift and merge. “We could-”

“I can't leave the Tower. We don't know for sure how much longer we have until Minya's ready to come out. I look like a _freak_.”

“You're not trapped in the Tower, Clint. We can go somewhere. I'll make Stark fly you anywhere in the world.” Clint snorts. They both know that Tony would fly him anywhere he wanted to go without so much as a twist of his arm. Clint shakes his head though, a frown twisting his lips.

“It's not a good idea. This is fine. I'm fine staying in the Tower. Really.”

Her look says that she knows he's full of shit, but Tasha just shakes her head and rises.

Clint knows that that's not the end of things. The team might have sent her in as their best, first chance at dragging him out of his room but none of them are the kind of people who give up. It's kind of their thing.

So when, during what should be a quiet hour in the shooting gallery with just Clint, his bow and a nearly unlimited supply of arrows, Thor comes to lean on the wall behind him, Clint isn't all that surprised. He goes through the rest of the arrows in his quiver before bothering to acknowledge Thor's presence.

“Something I can help you with, big guy?”

“You do not find that the child throws off your balance?”

“I've compensated. I've had to make shots carrying fifty pounds of gear on my back with a thirty pound kid clinging to me. This is annoying, but nothing I can't overcome.” He begins to pack up his gear.

“Lady Natasha has informed me of your problem.” A long beat. Clint knows that Thor wants him to fill in the gap, spill all his problems and let Thor fix them. He's taking his job as uncle/future foster father very seriously. When Clint says nothing, Thor sighs and pushes off of the wall. The wall creaks in relief. “You worry about the regard of others. That they focus too much on you when you are out among people.”

“Pregnant men aren't exactly a dime a dozen around here. I don't know how it is on Asgard, but here it can't do anything good.”

“It is unusual, though not unknown, among my people.” There is a quality to Thor's voice that tells Clint that 'not unknown' means 'Loki did it once'. Clint's learned to read between the lines when Thor speaks. “You are not faring well, hiding within our home.”

“I'm fine.”

“Please, my friend, do not lie. You are not well. Not ill, I do not mean to say that you are harming-” Thor shakes his head, speaking softly to himself before crossing the room to pick up one of the unspent arrows. “You are unhappy, being stared at. You are unhappy in this exile you have imposed upon yourself. I wish to see you happy, if I may.”

“Not that I don't appreciate the thought,” He does, it's nice to have people worrying about him. “but it is really not your job to keep me happy.”

“Nonetheless.” Thor reaches for Clint's bag, pulling his hand back before Clint can hit him. Clint takes his own bag and slides it over his shoulder. “Not helpless.” Thor says it with a smile, as though it hadn't taken Tasha, Jane and a PowerPoint presentation with Darcy to get 'pregnant does not equal fragile' through his head. 'Things are different on Asgard' was only tolerable for so long.

“Nope. But you can hit the lights on the way out, if you like.” Thor does, and they head down the hall to Clint's rooms.

“I have an idea.” Thor beams, practically radiating sunshine and glee. “To solve your problem. Lady Natasha finds that it has merit and suggested that I speak to you.”

“Lay it on me.”

-

“I prefer this gown.”

Clint glances over his shoulder to see Thor holding up the ankle length tan dress the god has already suggested five times. 

“I know you do big guy, but a) it's strapless. I don't trust it to stay up and b) I don't look good in that much brown.” He turns back to the mirror and nods at his own image. “This is the one. Tash?”

“It's bright. Attention grabbing.” She shrugs and continues to rummage through the makeup. “Very you. After Abu Dhabi I really shouldn't be surprised.” She tosses everything she's decided not to use back into the case, then takes hold of Clint's shoulders to guide him to the chair.

“Hey, it's not my fault all the other abaya were boring.”

“Purple and gold sequins, Clint.” Her look of disgust would kill lesser men. Clint just grins and straightens the straps of the dress, making sure that his bra is covered.

“I'm overburdened with a sense of style. It's my curse, but I bear up as best I can.” Natasha rolls her eyes and leans in to begin working on his makeup. Clint can see Thor, still holding the tan dress and almost pouting with disappointment. “Hey, you wanna come with us? We can stop by the store where we got these and see if they have that one in your size.”

Thor straightens up, settling the rejected dress on the small pile at the foot of the bed. “Indeed, an excellent suggestion! I will change. Do not leave without me.”

-

When they return, Thor is loaded down with bags. Most of them are his own; he insists on buying gifts for his family and friends every single time he goes out in civilian gear. By now Clint figures that Odin All-Father has fifty or sixty snow globes and at least three sets of the stretchy gloves in rainbow colors. Clint grabs his own bag from the stack and waves his friends off.

Bruce is in the labs with Tony, a fact that surprises no one, and though it is not the most direct or convenient path to his rooms, Clint wanders through that level. He can tell when they notice him, the steady back and forth of their voices stop and there is nothing but the muffled beat of Tony's music. 

Ten minutes later there's a knocking on Clint's door. He opens it up a crack, just enough to see Bruce standing there, his hands behind his back. 

“Can I help you?”

“Ah, yes. I...can I come in?”

“I don't know. You haven't even introduced yourself yet.” Clint opens the door a little wider, letting Bruce get a glimpse of the tiered skirt of the dress as he slides his leg into the gap. “What's in your hands?”

“Just a little...” Bruce brings his hands out from behind him and he's holding a plate of fried pickles and a glass of milk. He looks down at the food in his hands, then back up to Clint's face. Clint smirks and licks his lips, tasting the slight waxiness of his lipstick. “I'm sorry, I'm being very rude. I'm Bruce. Bruce Banner. I live a few floors down and I just wanted to welcome you to the building.”

“You're not some sort of a maniac, are you?”

“No ma'am. Scouts honor.” Bruce holds up the hand with the milk in an awkward salute. “Just your friendly neighborhood doctor.” He's blushing, pale pink tinting his ears and the bridge of his nose. Clint ducks his head and looks up at Bruce through his lashes. Bruce's blush deepens as a hint of green flashes through his eyes.

Clint smiles and opens the door the rest of the way. “Oh, a doctor? Well why didn't you say so.”

“I-” Words fail Bruce as he steps into the room, nearly walking into the table to the right of the door. “That is a very nice dress. I'm going to ruin it.” Bruce's blush vanishes, his voice dropping into the rumbling purr that reminds Clint of the Hulk when he's happy.

“Why Doctor Banner. I believe you're trying to seduce me.”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.” Clint closes the door behind Bruce, locking it as Bruce takes his offerings to the small wet bar. 

“So this is- is it new? Or...I don't...” Bruce's voice just fades out, as though his throat has gone dry. Clint can see Bruce growing hard in the confines of his slacks. He swallows down a smile and sways as best he can across the carpet to where Bruce is fiddling with his glasses and trying to figure out what to look at first. “I mean, we haven't really talked, I guess, about things like- so this could be. A thing. That is not new.”

“How hard are you right now?” Clint speaks quietly, his voice low and more than a little rough.

Bruce chokes on a laugh, his cheeks flushing, his fingers digging into the wood of the bar. Clint runs his hands over the top of the dress, pulling the fabric tight to emphasize the swell of his breasts. The dress is incredibly comfortable, the bright purple cotton light against his skin. He presses his palms to each side of his stomach. It's probably just his imagination, but he thinks he can feel Minya pressing back against the palm of one hand.

“Very.” Bruce comes out from behind the bar, his glasses forgotten on the gleaming wood. “I had no idea that- I mean you're _beautiful_ , Clint. This is...may I?” His hands hover a fraction of an inch over Clint's arms, just below where the wide straps of the dress end. 

“Yes.” Bruce's hands are rough and warm against Clint's shoulders, his fingers touching the edges of fabric before moving down, stroking along the muscles and scars. “What'd Tony say?”

“It wasn't in English, whatever it was.” Bruce leans in, his body arching over the bulwark of Clint's stomach, to run a line of light kisses over Clint's jaw, his lips. Clint grabs at Bruce's belt, the leather body-warm beneath his touch. “It was what I imagine a keyboard smash must sound like, out loud. I think he's getting JARVIS to buy more dresses for you.”

“Tony does have really good taste.” Clint flicks his tongue across Bruce's upper lip, tasting sweat and the curry that he'd had for lunch. Bruce's fingers bunch in the fabric of the dress, pulling it up a slow inch at a time until Clint can feel the hem brushing against his upper thighs. He kisses Bruce, nipping gently at his lips until they part. Bruce tastes sweet with just a hint of spice. Clint's lips burn when he pulls away, Bruce's follows him, soothing the burn with slow swipes of his tongue. “Maybe we shouldn't talk about Tony anymore.”

“Good idea.” Bruce's hands are on Clint's thighs now, the dress pooling at his wrists as he runs his fingers over Clint's skin, stroking up and down rhythmically. “I want to pick you up.”

“Okay. To the bed?”

“The chair.” Bruce is stronger than he looks, and he lifts Clint with only a soft exhalation. Clint wraps his arms around Bruce, tangling his hands in the dark curls at the back of his neck. His belly makes him awkward like this, unable to press close enough to Bruce to wrap his legs tightly around his waist. He's held almost completely by Bruce's strength alone, the strong press of his palms cupping Clint's ass. 

Bruce settles Clint carefully into the armchair, kneeling down between his legs to draw the skirt back down over Clint's legs. He stays there, each finger a point of fire burning through the cool cotton of the dress. Bruce rubs his cheek against Clint's knee, moaning quietly when Clint rubs the thin sole of one sandal against him through his slacks.

“I love this.” Bruce touches Clint's ankle, fingers spread wide as he moves upward beneath the dress, leaving trails of tingling heat behind. “Do you like how this feels? You're so _soft_.” His palm covers Clint's knee, gently urging him to spread his leg a little further, to grant Bruce better access. Clint lifts his leg, dragging his foot up across his thigh, his hip, until he can press hard against the tight muscles of Bruce's stomach.

“The three of us went and got waxed.”

Bruce growls, the noise rumbling in his chest and shifts his grip, lifting Clint's leg up until he can fumble off the sandal. It goes flying off into the room, quickly followed by the other shoe. Bruce presses a kiss to the ridge of Clint's ankle, lifting the skirt a few inches at a time to reveal more and more tan, perfectly smooth skin. Clint huffs and writhes against the seat, grabbing at Bruce's hair and shoulders, dragging him in close only to have him pull back again and again.

Bruce bites and licks kisses up Clint's calves until the fabric of the skirt is pooled in his lap. Their eyes meet and Bruce leans back on his heels, hands resting on the insides of Clint's thighs. “Okay?”

“So much.” He pulls at the fabric over his thighs, lifting his hips a little as he does. Bruce grabs at the sliding hem of the skirt, tugging it back down to Clint's knees. His hands vanish up beneath the puddle of purple cotton, ghosting over Clint's skin until he finds Clint's underwear, the silk tight and wet over his erection.

Bruce hums, fingers wrapping around Clint through the fabric and stroking. He smirks at Clint's groaned curse and then he's gone, beneath the skirt of the dress. The silk is almost rough at first, as Bruce licks over him, dragging the fabric against sensitive skin. There is heat as Bruce takes him whole, mouth open and _panting_ around him, drenching the silk before he pulls away to nip at the crease of Clint's thighs. Bruce's hands pluck at the edges of the panties, playing along the lines and up over the rise of Clint's stomach before dropping back down to squeeze hard enough to leave perfect finger shaped bruises on Clint's thighs.

It's a challenge, to hold his cries as long as he can. Clint urges Bruce on wordlessly, digging his heels into his sides, pulling hard at his hair through the thin veil of the dress. Bruce chuckles against the damp prison he's created for Clint, dragging his cheek over the slick fabric so that Clint arches up into the firm touch. Clint yanks so hard that he can feel the hair rip free, the seam of the dress giving beneath his death grip with a scream. 

More fabric tears and there is a brief moment of relief, when cool air brushes over his overheated and aching cock and then Bruce is swallowing him down. Everything is hidden beneath the folds of his skirt and Clint wishes that he could see, the sight of Bruce taking him to the hilt is fucking _incredible_ but when he reaches for the skirt to tear it away Bruce growls around him. Spit slick fingers cradle Clint's balls, roll and massage them roughly before sliding back and slipping inside of him. 

Clint gasps and surrenders, wordless gasps giving way to curse after curse as Bruce breathes him in and fucks him gently. He can hear Bruce breathing around him, moaning and growling deep in his throat and he focuses on that, using it to hold back the prickling wave of release that threatens his control until Bruce ends it. Twists his fingers as he takes Clint deep into his throat and sucks. Clint can feel the rhythmic brush of Bruce's arm against his leg and he knows what Bruce is doing, can see the near blur of his hand as Bruce jerks himself off.

All Clint can think is to wonder whether or not Bruce has Clint's panties wrapped around his dick and then he's coming.

When he puts himself back together, Clint is still in the recliner, tilted back and blinking blearily at his ceiling. He's sticky and when he straightens up he can see that the dress is torn and stained, two of the tiers near the hem dangling by only a few threads. Bruce is seated on the floor, leaning back against Clint's legs.

“You owe me a dress.”

“Told you I'd ruin it.” Bruce picks up one of Clint's feet and settles it into his lap, beginning to press his thumbs into the arch, rubbing away the aching tension there.


End file.
